


we'll fall together

by empty_throne



Series: Scent of Blood [5]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Medical Kink, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3845236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empty_throne/pseuds/empty_throne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Expansion of the fourth "five twists of the soul" drabble. Matt puts into words what Claire is reluctant to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll fall together

She catches herself thinking that this time it isn't so bad. Which is a pretty good sign of how screwed-up her scale has gotten. There are five slashes across Matt's chest on the right side, another cracked rib, a burn on his jaw, and she has no idea how he's going to explain that last one to unsuspecting civilians. He's good at hiding pain, and people are ready to believe a blind man might fall or walk into things--but what is he going to do, say he tripped and landed on an oven burner? But compared to other nights, this one is pretty good. Nobody has sunk a hooked blade into his gut, leaving a scratch on his floating rib where they dragged him across the floor.

All of those thoughts are an attempt to distract herself.

"It turns you on, doesn't it?"

The question stops her mid-movement, one hand inside the duffel where she's stowing her kit. He's staring out the window, but of course that doesn't mean anything; he can be watching her without ever looking in her direction. She licks her lips nervously, knowing he'll "see" the motion, but she can't stop herself. "What?"

"I can hear it," he says. It has the sound of an apology. "The changes in your heartbeat, your breathing. Your skin temperature changes."

"It freaks me out, seeing you hurt." He can hear lies.

"Yeah, but--it doesn't freak you out the same way it used to. What you feel now, when you see me, it's ... it's different."

She grits her teeth, focuses on packing her duffel. "I'm a nurse, Matt. I see people hurt every day, and I hate it. All the awful things that happen to them."

He shifts on the couch, leather creaking. "I believe you. And I'm not saying you're a bad person. I just know what I hear."

It isn't right. She shouldn't get that tension inside when he comes climbing through her window, when she gets the phone call asking her to come by his apartment, the tension that isn't anything like the helpless anger that grips her when somebody gets wheeled into the ER, another victim of this city. She shouldn't feel good when she slides the needle through his skin, draws the thread taut and sees his flesh tug in response. She shouldn't enjoy the sounds he makes when he sits up and his body groans in protest.

But she does.

"It doesn't bother me," he says quietly.

"It bothers _me_ ," she snaps. She can't look at him; it may not matter to him whether she does or not, but it matters to her. "Matt, I--I don't even know why it happens. I don't get turned on at the hospital. It isn't people's suffering that does it, it's--"

She stops, but they can both hear the words she doesn't say. _It's_ your _suffering._

Maybe it's because she believes he'll always get back up again. She's bought into the Murdock myth, the idea that they'll never stay down. Maybe it's because he's strong, and so many of the people brought to her aren't. Maybe the weakness is the contrast that makes his strength beautiful. Or maybe it's the strength that makes the weakness beautiful.

She can't explain it because she doesn't understand it. She only knows that Matt's right, that she's never more aroused than when he's laid out before her, bruised and bleeding and a little bit broken.

"Look, Claire." He shifts again, and this time he turns to face her; he stays there until she looks up, because apparently he wants to be sure she's hearing him. It takes a long time before she can make herself do it. Then he says, "I owe you more than I can ever repay. The reason I'm still on my feet is you. Everything you've done for me. Knowing you get something out of this ..." He shrugs. "It makes me feel better about the fact that I keep coming to you, keep asking for your help. If this gets you off ... then at least somebody's getting something out of it."

Her breath is much too fast, to the point where her vision is starting to fuzz a little. "It's wrong."

There's darkness in his answer, the lurking shadow she's heard from time to time, when he talks about what he's going to do to his latest target. "We all have something wrong with us."

Slowly she gets up, crosses to the chair, sits down in it. No doubt he can taste it on the air, her arousal mixing with the scent of his blood. She lets her knees part, one hand hovering uncertainly in the air.

He says, "Do you want me to tell you what happened?"

_No. Yes._

She doesn't say anything, but after a moment he begins.

He delivers it all in a calm, level tone, which both helps and makes it hotter. How the fight began. How many guys there were. The kick that cracked his rib, the fists and elbows that stamped his body with bruises that will be there for days, overlaying the tapestry of marks from previous nights. The claws one man gripped in his fist, that raked across Matt's chest and left his shirt hanging in tatters. The bullets all missed him--she'll never understand how he manages that--but when he came into close range, the guy with the pistol struck him across the jaw with it, searing his skin.

She knows the results of all of this, intimately, with her eyes and her hands. And as Matt tells her, in precise detail, how his flesh and bone were abused, she slides her hand inside her jeans and begins to stroke. She's soaking even before she begins, and only holds back because she doesn't want to finish before the story goes. Her eyes burn because she's hardly blinking; she keeps her gaze fixed on him, on the neat line of her stitches, the dried blood he hasn't washed away. His is the body of a martyr, and she isn't Catholic but she understands the visceral appeal of their broken bodies, the shameful attraction that no penance can erase.

It's the burn that does it. The thought of that heated metal on his jaw, the cry of pain he wouldn't have been able to hold back. Claire comes apart, arching in the chair, her own voice a stranger's in her ears. It's release of a kind she hasn't been able to achieve until now, because this time it's honest. Ugly, but true. The suffering of Matt Murdock gets her off.

And he doesn't judge her for it.

He rises from the couch, with those little sounds of pain she treasures more than she should, and comes to her. The kiss he lays on her lips is soft, understanding, kind in a way she doesn't deserve. She takes her hand out and trails her wet fingertips along the angry, reddened skin on his jaw, feather-light. Not enough to hurt. She doesn't need any more of that right now.

But there will be other nights.


End file.
